This morning I was woken by the cats at 4:30am with their regularly scheduled playfight. They tend to start flailing themselves across the hardwood floor of the hallway about that time. It sounds like someone tossing a fur-lined bag of meat into a wooden shipping container.
Regardless, I was awake. While I waited for sleep to come back to me I hopped on my iPhone and checked out various social mediums. Two people I know on Facebook are preparing for marathons. These two are both people I’d think were the last to actually go out and get sweaty – one being a bookworm I’ve known since high school and the other an IT professional who writes on the side. Couchy potatoey types training for a marathon at the same time. Huh. Weird.
I flip over to my blog feeds and see that Don (StudioYVR – who has modeled his blog after the Apple site – trez trendy) is prepping for no less than 11 marathons next year.
I can’t even schedule my next Doritos run. Oh yes I can. Usually at 7pm every night.
And as I thought about these people getting out there and just doing it, SharkBoy rolls over and hugs me. His hand slips under my gut.
Le Sigh. I haven’t been on my bike in a while and the gym membership has been on hold since the strike/Workshare summer. I’ve gained about 10lbs in the last couple months. With the impending Pig Trough on the Ocean vacation coming up (swimsuits – yikes…), I decided it was time to get back into it. And that there was no better time to start than right at that moment.
5am and I lean into SharkBoy’s sleeping face: “I’m going for a run.” I whisper.
“Really?” The word “really” sounded more like “You’re fucking kidding me.”
I start with stretches out in the back parking lot behind the apartment. George Hamilton 2, the neighbour’s cat who looks like our George Hamilton, greets me as I grunt to touch my toes. In the silence of the morning I can hear… a lot of cats meowing, either to be let in or just because that’s the time they all sing. Or they’re fucking. Cats. Go figure.
I set off towards Riverdale Park at a decent trot. I’m mindful of how my feet are landing and that I’m not clenching my fists. I loosen my shoulders and breathe deep. Within a half block I am wheezing like an asthmatic who has just had a massive roll of $20s thrust into his hand and has been walked into a stripper bar. I manage a half block walk, half block jog as I run around Cabbagetown. Over my gasps for air I hear… nothing. The drone of the DVP in the valley and the odd car going down Parliament Street. After a good 30 minutes I decide to return home.
As an added bonus to myself I ran by a Tim Hortons so I could breathe in donut exhaust.
Will I continue? I think so. Not sure how I will manage on wet or snowy days but for now, I’m not hating it. It’s actually fun.
At home I jump back onto the Wii Fit. “Really?” it says.
5 thoughts on “Run, Fatboy. Run.”
keep it up, for all the reasons you mentioned and more. throughout my recent surgical adventure, one central theme has constantly been brought up by every doctor and physiotherapist i’ve seen: if you’re in bad shape going into surgery (or some other complicated medical procedure), the chances of you recovering quickly and completely are reduced. and, if you have to do a lot of physio afterward (like me), your body is already disciplined and ready to work – first at healing and then at rebuilding. i do three hours of physio per day and while it’s a pain in the ass, it’s a far better option than not healing properly (or at all). i can’t imagine how tough this process would be without being in somewhat decent shape and having a gym routine going in.
good luck with it, and i hope you rejoin the gym, at least for the winter months.
It was more like the fact that I was sound asleep and when I opened my eyes you were standing above me with some ridiculous track pants on. I’ll go run with you one of these morning, but promise not to wear those track pants anymore.
And Wii fit is a bitch. I’m just sayin’. EVERY time I get on it, it says “Oh!” like its in pain.
“It sounds like someone tossing a fur-lined bag of meat into a wooden shipping container.”
I love this sentence. Good golly.
That Don person is just really annoying. All he does is run between espresso bars to avoid admitting that Vancouver has 6 months of darkness. Queen of Da Nile!